


my thighs are connected to you

by mosaical



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 00:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18927397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaical/pseuds/mosaical
Summary: Conveniently, Robert is instead out camping and hunting for the week, missing yet another one of her birthdays in favor of butchering animals in a forest with a bunch of similarly bearded, boring, obnoxious men. It would make her bitter. It does make her bitter, even though she's so used to it, but right now she can't think about that, can't be bothered trying.Jaime has always known how to redirect her focus elsewhere.





	my thighs are connected to you

When they turn forty, her brother takes her to the opera.

They celebrate all their birthdays together, always, a long-held tradition that not even Tywin Lannister's scorn or Tyrion Lannister's teasing can put a stop to, save for one – their thirty-fourth birthday had seen Jaime out of town on a business trip and Cersei sick with the flu, and when Jaime returned the day after, Cersei had been so delirious with fever that she had immediately burst out crying and told him never to leave her ever again, all while clinging to him.

It always makes her sick to think that she's _aging,_ and reaching such a milestone is no easier, but Jaime makes it so, as easily as he's ever done, and for that she's grateful.

Even though she loathes the opera.

Jaime tells her that the tickets were a gift from Father's secretary whose name Cersei doesn't remember or care about and who clearly doesn't care about them, either, otherwise the insipid girl would know not to get them tickets to the damned opera. So despite the fact that neither of them like the opera nearly as much as their father does, or in fact at all, they go. She wouldn't agree to it if not for the light in Jaime's eyes, playful and teasing and warm when he promises that it's only the first of many gifts to come – wouldn't agree to it if not for the fact that this is Jaime, and sometimes she finds it very difficult to say no to him when he looks at her like that.

So they go to the opera, and they sit high in the box together, and Cersei is bored out of her bloody mind the whole time.

“Jaime,” she hisses halfway through the second act or maybe it's the third. His eyes dart sidelong to her, his mouth twitching into a smirk she would slap off of him if she was in any worse a mood.

“Yes, sweet sister?”

“What are my other gifts?”

“Shh,” he says, has the _audacity_ to say, and looks back ahead. “This is my favorite part.”

“You aren't even _watching,_ ” she murmurs, leans over to jab him pointedly in the ribs. He winces, rubbing at his side as though she's fatally wounded him. Drama queen.

“If I told you what your other gifts were, then they wouldn't be surprises, would they?”

“Why do they always have to be surprises?”

“They don't. I just like seeing you squirm.”

“I hate you,” she mutters under her breath, looking to the stage. Someone new has joined the fray, with just as ridiculous a costume as the others, all frills and a voice that makes her head hurt. She's reminded horribly of Lysa Arryn. If Lysa Arryn was pretty.

Before she can linger too long on that unfortunate comparison, Jaime hums and moves his chair over, closer to hers, a hand settling on her knee. “No you don't,” he says, fingers squeezing warmly, fondly. She's glad for the distraction, glancing at him and knowing that her lips are twitching helplessly at the corners.

Right now, for tonight, she doesn't try to stop it, knowing that she could if she wanted to. It's their birthday, and it's already been a good one, despite the opera. It had started out as a good one, the moment Jaime showed up on her doorstep and gallantly offered an arm, grinning from ear to ear.

She won't ruin it now.

“No,” she says, “I don't.”

She's rewarded for her honesty – his fingers crawl up her thigh a little higher, closer to her cunt, and the silk of her dress is so thin that she can feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric. It matches the heat of his breath when he leans in to kiss her cheek, her jaw, her throat. His lips are faint and soft, kind, gentle, all the things that no one else could ever hope to be with her, that no one else could ever even pull off an attempt of. Their time spent together is frequent but never as much as she'd like, and the way he feels now, the way he looks at her and smiles against her cheek and reaches down to hold her hand, is nothing at all like her husband back home.

Her husband is not even _back home._ Conveniently, Robert is instead out camping and hunting for the week, missing yet another one of her birthdays in favor of butchering animals in a forest with a bunch of similarly bearded, boring, obnoxious men. It would make her bitter. It does make her bitter, even though she's so used to it, but right now she can't think about that, can't be bothered trying.

Jaime has always known how to redirect her focus elsewhere.

“Are you going to fuck me here?”

His fingers tighten a little on her thigh, and a huff escapes him, one part of a surprised laugh that he hastily swallows. She wants to turn her head aside and lift herself up and kiss him to feel that laughter, that vibration all through him, wants him to be inside of her now, fingers and tongue and cock all, and they've done it plenty of places, from her and Robert's bed to against the wall in the foyer to the garden to the back of a car in a parking lot, but not here. Never here.

It isn't like anyone will see them – she knows there's no chance of it, private as it is, but the thought makes her instinctively glance over a shoulder at the door instead, only for her breath to be lost in the next second when Jaime drags the skirt of her gown up over her thighs and presses home, fingers stroking over the inside of her thigh and then further, quicker, touching the warm place she knows and feels is already slick with want.

“That was the idea, yes,” he says, finally, nuzzling his jaw against her neck, her bare shoulder. He's shaven but there's just enough stubble to scratch, and usually the very idea of anything but bare, smooth skin would irritate her—god knows Robert's awful beard always has—but Jaime has always been the exception, always.

Cersei clears her throat because she has to, because she feels something trapped there, all hot beating lust in the thrum of her pulse and the shape of her fingers tightening around her brother's arm. She presses her lips together in a thin line and pulls his hand closer to her cunt. “This had better not count as one of your gifts.”

And she manages to speak clearly, but only just; she's already so impatient, wanting to move closer, wanting _him_ to move closer, to move his hand, for his fingers to slide up against her clit instead of just over her underwear, anything at all, really _anything._ It's only ever Jaime. Only ever Jaime who makes her like this, an embarrassing and dripping mess just by doing the bare minimum.

“No,” he murmurs against her ear, making her shiver. She hates that, too. "It doesn't. But you don't mind, do you, Cerse?” And that.

“You know I don't like being called that,” she says, more breathlessly than she'd like. It's true. Usually, he calls her that when they're having an argument, or Tyrion calls her it just to annoy her, or Margaery Tyrell decides to be especially obnoxious and use it like she has any right to be so familiar with her. She feels him smile again, his lips brushing her temple.

“I know,” he says, unapologetic, “I'm _very_ sorry.” His fingers sweep her underwear aside so quickly, so suddenly that it steals all the air in her lungs and leaves her reeling when he finally presses against her, stroking along where the skin is soaked and her hair is damp, and heat creeps into her cheeks all the way up from her tingling spine when she hears him laugh softly against her ear. “Already, sister? So soon?”

Better. Much, much better. _Sister,_ not Cerse, and maybe he can tell her approval in the way her thighs shut around his hand, more instinct than anything when she raises her hips off the chair briefly to spur him on. She wants to kiss him, desperately, and overcome with the urge she tilts her head to chase his mouth, gasping like she's been deprived when he leans away instead. “What—“

“Patience,” he tuts, and she could kill him, she really could, but then he's lifting her up and pulling her close, chest against chest, reaching down to pull the lace and silk of her underwear down her legs and _good,_ they'd been getting uncomfortable with how they were sticking to her.

She kicks them aside into the dark corner of the box when they fall around her ankles and promptly settles back in the chair, shuddering a little at the look he gives her – like he wants to lean down and consume her whole. He kisses her on the mouth, again and again, quick and fluttering – and then he's falling, or no, kneeling, descent marked when he's on his knees in front of her, looking up at her, her handsome golden Jaime with eyes that are so bright for her that it makes her want to weep and shout _this is for me, this is all for me, this is all mine._

She cries out the moment his mouth meets her aching slit, so soft but so _good_ that she feels herself pulsing from head to toe, tremors running through her fingertips, and it's very convenient timing that everyone around them gets on their feet clapping for the upcoming final act, all so boring and polite while she's being fucked by her brother right in the same building, right next to them, and they don't know, they'll never know, and that –

That almost feels as good as when Jaime licks at her, deep and hot and quick, his mouth moving like it's made for being there at her cunt, like he was made for being on his knees in front of her and keeping his mouth between her thighs until she comes unraveled against his lips, his tongue, again and again and again until she's fully spent and he can't offer anything more.

Jaime always offers more, of course, because he's her brother and above all he's a people-pleaser, but it's good to imagine, better when he seems set on proving it a reality with the way he sucks and laps at her, his tongue curling and flicking in all of the right ways. Her heel is pressed against his spine and he mutters a brief complaint about her 'damn heels' digging into his 'damn tailbone' and she can't be bothered, really, to listen to that or to ease up or to do anything but moan against the back of her hand. She misses his longer hair often, but right now she'll settle for this, for curling her fingers in the shorter version instead and pulling as hard as she can because it's still long enough at least for that, watching the way it spills flaxen through her fingers when he licks faster, a little rougher, just perfect.

“Jaime,” she breathes, like a chant or a mantra or a prayer, “ _Jaime,_ ” and as always he's utterly responsive to the reverence in her voice, encouraged to the point that he slips a finger inside of her without having to be ordered, and then a second and even a third, thick and warm and filling her with quick, easy, sloppy thrusts that she can _hear_ and her cheeks flush and she's so close she's so close—

“You're close,” he says, because of course he does, because of course he knows, he always _knows,_ the way Robert never does, and he leans up and bites her bottom lip red, then kisses her deep so that she can taste herself on his mouth, his lips, his tongue and –

And she sees black, or no, that's not right. She sees white, and red, and _gold,_ so much gold that it feels like something bursting open all around her, glittering and sparking and lovely, and she comes down from all of it listening to the thunderous applause whatever dull performance on the stage below has earned from the rest of the audience, watching her chest heave with her panting breaths, breathless and a little dizzy like she's just run a marathon, and from between her legs, Jaime rises, licking his lips and smiling and "I love you,” she says, blinded and half-mad by the rush of warmth in her veins, and he leans over her and kisses her again and – again and – again and she does like the opera. She does.

Jaime laughs, pulling her up just to hold her close for the briefest of moments. “I love you,” he echoes sweetly in her ear, and then lets her go, turning back toward his chair only to trip into it with a startled yelp when she pushes him, standing after him and reaching down, fingers fumbling at his trousers. “Cersei, what—“

His protests – mild though they are – melt into a moan the moment she pushes everything obstructing her goal aside and takes his cock into her hand, squeezing warmly along the swollen length before she straddles him, straddles him, hiking the skirt of her dress up around her hips and letting it fall around their joined laps the next moment when she pushes herself down, hips rolling, and –

“ _Oh,_ ” Jaime says, the moment she does the same, and for a moment they sound like one, like the same person in the same body sharing the same soul and she really could come again just from hearing it, just from seeing Jaime tense under her, just from feeling him twitch inside of her the moment they press together and become one moving, breathing, trembling thing.

Cersei listens to the singing, which sounds more and more distant to her ears, and tips her head down to tuck it away in the crook of his neck, letting herself ease forward the moment he wraps his arms around her and holds her close and tight, guiding her hips up and down against him, along him. “I love you, Jaime,” she breathes into his ear, once, and then clamps down around his cock pointedly, using her muscles in the way she best knows how to and pleased when it earns her an uncontrolled shudder of a whine, deep in the back of her dear brother's throat.

“Cersei, I'm—“

“Close,” she finishes for him, grinning, and she's close too, and the moment one of the women below them reaches a particularly high note she lets herself be washed away on the tide of pleasure that makes her brain go perfectly, wonderfully blank for what she figures could be anywhere from seconds to whole minutes. Even then she feels him inside of her, always, twitching, his hands drawing painfully tight on her hips as he muffles a groan into her chest.

When she comes back, Jaime is looking at her like she's given him a pile of treasure, and the moon and sun and stars too, and Cersei cannot get enough of it, so she allows it a little while longer before she leans down and kisses him, squeezing tight around his cock. She feels him tremble all over again, a deep sigh leaving from the pit of his chest.

“Happy birthday, Cersei,” he says, holding her face in her hands and pressing his lips to her sweaty forehead.

“Happy birthday, Jaime,” she says, breathless still, and they smile at each other, and she thinks perhaps forty isn't so bad after all.

She even sends a bouquet to Father's secretary the morning after, with a thank-you note. 

Let no one say she's never been polite where it's deserved.


End file.
